Monica often wondered if she should regret her decision. It seemed that being trapped in the hold of ship would be something that people would regret getting themselves into. And she had turned herself in.
It mystified her that she wasn't killed by her captors. The woman Carla didn't seem to want to kill her, but they were looking for the person that killed Gardi Dormentaire, that was her. She had killed him with a candlestick while the room around them burned. Surely, she would executed as just payment for her crimes. She remained alive however.
No, Monica regretted nothing. But she was afraid.
She rubbed her head and couldn't help but think of Huey. Where was he right now? Had he gone to see her brother yet? Probably. Although Esperenza wouldn't have liked the sight of a man. She sighed again and looked up at the the rocking sailing of the ship. He would probably never know about it.
Monica felt in her heart of hearts that she was going to die soon. And she accepted that.
She just didn't want to bring anyone else with her.
…
She was pacing the next morning before she worked up the courage to approach the door to her cell. She looked at the man guarding her room. He was on the short side with olive skin and dark brown hair, and although she could only see part of his profile she deduced that he was bored out of his mind.
"Uh, sir?" Monica said quietly, her voice squeaking slightly. He jumped as if being started from a deep sleep.
"Leave me alone, I'm not supposed to talk to you," he said gruffly, turning away from her.
"Okay then don't. But please can you get Carla? I need to talk to her," Monica pleaded. He shook his head.
"Please? It's rather urgent,"
"Can't do little lady. Whatever you have to say to her you can say to me," He said, breaking his vow of silence.
"Uh, alright. I'm pregnant,"
Monica had never seen a man run so fast.
…
Carla appeared a minute later, accompanied by several large, burly men.
"Leave us," She said once she entered the room, gesturing for the other men to leave.
"But ma'am, what if she tries someth-," the man on her right side started before he was interrupted.
"I can protect myself, now leave," she ordered and the men left begrudgingly. "Now what do you need?"
"I-I'm pregnant," She said softly looking down at her hands. There was a heavy silence.
"Which one of my men? Just describe him," Carla said harshly, her eyes narrow and dark. "They will be greatly punished."
"No! No! Nothing like that!" Monica blushed and and waved her hands desperately in front of her face.
"I had a..." She trailed off. "lover?" the word sounded so crude on her tongue, Huey was the farthest thing from a lover.
Carla looked her up and down,
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen,"
"And you're sure?"
"Nearly positive, I'm late by about three weeks,"
"How far along are you?"
"I think about a month and a half, maybe two,"
"Hm, this complicates matters…"
"I'm sorry," Monica said with tears in her eyes.
"Why are you apologizing? It's nothing to apologize for, it simply complicates matters." Carla sighed.
…
Monica felt sick, but lately she always felt sick so it was more of an irritating itch now than actual discomfort. The combination of the rocking boat only seemed to add to her morning sickness, and the small room (if it could be called one) was uncomfortably hot all the time even as late autumn approached.
...
She was surprised how nice everyone was, she was expecting brutality, maybe even a forced abortion, but Carla was kind.
They gave her maternity dresses as her stomach swelled, ones that she wouldn't have been able to afford if she wanted to buy them in different circumstances. She was fed well, with fresh fruits and vegetables, and given meat often, Carla said it was for the baby, she was eating for two after all.
...
She was early, by about three weeks she thought when her water broke. It wasn't unusual, it was her first child, and she was still relatively young. The wetness against her legs woke her up in the darkness of night, and just as soon as her mind processed what that meant she sprang out of the cot and hobbled over to the door informing the uncomfortable guard of the situation. Pregnant women always seemed to make men run.
Monica knew the midwife, maybe, had seen her in the town square. And she vaguely wondered between contractions if she had been involved with the drug trade and child enslavement fiasco that had happened five years prior, but then pain would return to her abdomen and she discovered that she didn't really care.
She felt that it would never end. This endless cycle of pain, and exhaustion, and pushing, and waiting, and pain. The hardest part was staying awake, seeing it through, even as her body begged for rest. The midwife snapped at her, her words harsh as she prepared to welcome the new life.
It was twenty-seven hours later, just as the sun was thinking about poking it's rays from out across the horizon that the midwife instructed her to give one last powerful push. She did, crying out louder than the tiny infant that was just brought to life. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, very nearly tearing the fabric, as she desperately, fiercely, longed for someone's hand to grip.
…
She passed out briefly, and awoke to the sounds of the wailing baby, and the midwife scurrying around wrapping the infant in swaddling clothes and wiping away blood from just about everywhere.
After seeing she was conscious, the midwife thrust that baby into her arms, "Nurse it," She commanded, before returning to her cleaning. Monica stumbled about for a moment still lucid and confused, but eventually she sort of figured it out and the baby latched onto her breast and finally stopped wailing.
Now that she able to fully understand everything that was happening, Monica looked down at the child, her child, she corrected herself. It was red, and squishy, and still had some dried blood on it. It looked nothing like the small, adorable bundles of flesh that mothers carried with them to the market.
"Good job you survived your first pregnancy," the midwife said as she collected her things and left. "Good luck," But Monica had a feeling it wouldn't have mattered if she had died now anyway.
Carla came in a moment after the midwife had left, she stood in the doorway a moment inspecting the new mother, before she approached Monica. She sat beside Monica, and opened her arms. Monica slowly and gently placed the now sleeping baby in Carla's arms.
"I'm going to take care of the child for now, I'm sure I can find someone who would be glad to take care of it," she said quietly after a moment lightly rocking the baby. "Do you have a name?"
Monica shook her head and closed her eyes. This was for the best, that this child be taken away from her. she didn't want to know about it. It's name, it's gender, it's face or it's home knowing would just make it impossible to let go, and that's what she had to do.
"But," She whispered eyes fluttering to stay open, "I want it to know it was a Campanella. And that it's mother loved it … and do did it's father," she said after a moment. Carla nodded once and rose from the cell taking the baby with her.
…
Such a shame Monica never saw her child again.
…
It was later, after the commotion and the burning boats, after Monica Campanella had died that Carla had passed along the child to it's new caretaker.
And as the baby let out a sharp cry and wriggled in the arms of a man who's bangs covered his face, the man tusked and shook his head, but smiled down at the child anyway.
"Well, you might be useful yet,"
A/N: not gonna pretend i've ever given birth so I kept it as vague but as true as possible. reviews and criticism are appreciated